


The Lost are Found and the Found are Lost

by Crowsister



Series: Mare vs. Overwatch [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bordering on the Melodramatic, Gen, Questionable Spanish, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 21:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7138199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowsister/pseuds/Crowsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first of many proposed meetings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost are Found and the Found are Lost

**Author's Note:**

> The Spanish in here may be incorrect. I am not a fluent Spanish speaker and only know bits and pieces.

It was a simple mission. Retrieve data from the security cameras of Helix Security and get out. It was a mission the Reaper could do with his eyes closed and his fists tied behind his back. Talon wanted security guards’ routes on file, he could get that too. It was easy with little to no chance of opposition.

He slunk down the hallways, watching guards pass. No casualties unless he was caught. They couldn’t give away that someone had waltzed into their security center and made off with their schedules, after all. That would make the data useless. He paused. A guard passed. He dipped into shadow, his essence licking at the walls and floor like an eldritch abomination. He passed into the security center, connecting a usb to the mainframe and waiting for the extraction to finish.

“Now let’s see,” he muttered softly, looking at the blueprints of the facility he pulled up on the computer. “Where is it?”

“‘Twas Brr _rrr_ rillig,” a female voice sang, her voice annoyingly cheerful. He took his shotguns out, the trusty metal dissolving from sheer nothing to his grip from his reflexive instinct to kill the source. “And the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe, all mimsy were the borr _rr_ rogoves and the mome rr _r_ aths outgrabe.”

He looked about the room, clenching his teeth. The voice repeated the nonsensical verse, coming from a different direction. He shot in that direction and the voice cut out. The Reaper looked -- broken pieces of a speaker. What-

“Lose something?” Different direction and he shot. A woman faded from nothing, clothed in silver and black, dodging his shot. She grinned at him, looking up. “They told me you'd be rrrrrrude.”

He didn’t answer her, shooting at her again. She dodged, tackling him. They wrestled within the mainframe room, her knocking the guns from his hands and him rematerializing them whenever she wasn’t occupying his hands. Something ticked, ticked, ticked in the back of the Reaper’s mind -- something was familiar about this opponent. The right hook she clocked into his jaw -- his mask cutting into his skin and his skin reforming to push it back -- had his style in it, the sheer brute force of the fist punching the face and brushing past it for the elbow to slam into the other side of the face. That was a Gabriel Reyes trick -- be fast, be brutal, bring the bigger danger to their knees through the sheer amount of pain and damage. It was why he always, always, chose the shotgun over a sniper rifle or an assault weapon. Pistols were backups, but shotguns were brutal and efficient.

He pinned the smaller woman down, snarling, “Who are you?”

She gave him a bloodied smile -- why was that smile familiar. “I’m the Crescent Cat of Boston,” she purred. “And I’m _taking_ you in, pendejo.” She slammed her knee into his groin, rattling the plating down there before bringing her knee up against her chest and kicking him off.

He rematerialized a shotgun, catching her punch in one hand and holding her still as he aimed his shotgun to her chest. “Remove your mask,” he hissed, “try anything funny and I. Will. Kill. You.”

“Considering you’re runnin’ around calling yourself Reaper, I’m not gonna take that as a joke.” She slowly moved her hands in his sight. Every instinct was screaming at him -- the mission was more important, the data should’ve transferred by now, shoot her and run -- but something in him hesitated. He had to know, something was just too familiar and it shook him down to his core and he needed to know why.

She took off her mask, holding it in one hand above her head. She had cosmetic eye implants, her yellow-set eyes looking cat-like with the black pupils as thin as needles. But the facial structure, now unobstructed by the mask -- hard cheekbones set in a square face, solid jaw gritting teeth together as she gave a bitter smile to him (“A picture lasts _longer_ , pinche estúpido.”), the nose broken from their fight (and probably previous fights, if that’s how this woman fought) but still the tip was large, the nostrils wide-

That was _his_ nose.

He dropped his gun. He exhaled, “Hija?”

The Reaper was hit hard in the back of the head. Something too fast for him to hear or react to. He came to several hours later in the old interrogation room of Watchpoint Gibraltar, knowing the room well.

It used to be his kingdom.

Sitting in the chair opposite from him across the table he was chained to was the woman he had been fighting. She was humming the song she had been singing earlier, flipping through a book. She looked up at him, chuckling.

“Nice of you to wake up, old man,” she replied, closing the book. It looked like a photo album. “So, I’m gonna not patronize you and pretend you can’t break out of those bindings at any time. You can and we both know it. But it makes the others outside feel safer, like how we took your mask off.”

“Why am I here?”

“Because there’s a bunch of questions I’ve gotta get you to answer. Y’know, standard operating procedure, interrogation stuff.” She tapped her fingers on the table, looking away from him a moment before looking back. “But I’m kind of going to skip that garbage rrrright now. I know, that’s unprofessional of me, but if they wanted a professional interrogator, they should've stuck Winston in here. Or Lyric. Not me, basically is what I’m getting at.” She took a deep breath. “Why did you call me hija?”

The Reaper chuckled darkly. “You speak the language, heroína. You know-”

“That you called me _daughter_. ¡Mira qué cabrón! What did you mean by that, pendejo?”

The Reaper hummed. He phased his hands through the bindings, watching her flinch from the shadow of his hood as he moved his hands across the table. He took the photo album, opening it. He paused upon a picture. Gabriel Reyes at the park with a small girl, both wearing black in what he recalled to be the July heat. He had held her up in one arm, using the other to take the selfie with the two of them.

He tapped lightly at the picture, then pushed the photo album back to her. “Once upon a time, in a different life, I was a happy man. I had a daughter, a monstruita, who I grew to adore. She was, admittedly, an accident -- I hadn’t agreed on having children, I was a military man and didn’t want to subject my children to a life worrying about whether or not their padre got home, but the _brrruja_ had slipped me a tequila or two through water. I don’t drink, in this life or that one, so my alcohol tolerance was practically non-existent. She talked me into things I didn’t want, carried my daughter for nine months, and then I had to take care of the baby because that woman knew _nothing_ about childcare. My hija grew on me, like the monstruita she was. _Little_ Stephanie-”

“ _Padre_?”

He slowly pushed his hood back, looking down at her. “Si, hija.”

The two sat in silence, with the smiles of the past staring up at the ceiling as the hard stares of the present carved into each other.


End file.
